


The Road Agent

by olyphantastic



Category: Justified
Genre: Americana, Blood, Death, Gen, Horses, Old West, Sex, Swearing, Texas, Violence, West - Freeform, Western, abilene, dust - Freeform, fight, gun - Freeform, wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olyphantastic/pseuds/olyphantastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote "Badman," let it marinate for a bit, and then decided it needed some back story. Let me know if you think the first three are best by themselves or if you like the inclusion of "Badman" as the fourth chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Train

Steam puffed in the distance, a billowing cloud of promise barreling toward the pass.

His pulse quickened at the sight.

The prospect of so much gold, so unguarded, and so close set his teeth on edge and made the short hairs of his neck stand upright.

He watched the column of vapor moving toward him just a moment longer, wanting to sear the image into his brain. He gave the signal for Tex to clear the men and mounts from the blast zone.

His assemblage of bad men glanced wearily at each other, all dirt and scars and scabs. They were a consumptive congregation, each man hurdling along his own trajectory of destruction and terror.

They were still too new of a group. He had wanted them to be a cohesive unit, a well oiled machine of chaos, but there simply wasn't enough time. Even if they had be well acquainted, these men were loners, highway men. Though they didn't take orders well, this band of miscreants did have it all shored up in the brawn and pestilence departments.

The train came over the hill, rounded the curve and chugged into view as the concerto's virtuoso depressed the plunger on the blasting detonator with a flourish, a wide grin and a vociferous "fire in the hole!" A deluge of rocks and debris inundated the tracks about a mile in front of the smoke box.

His men began the breakneck descent to the valley below.

The porter engaged the continuous brake and the hulking steel titan shuddered to a stop.

Boyd snugged the bandana about his face and settled his hat low over his eyes. With a flick of his spur his sturdy mount raced down the sheer mountain side to the sound of several dozen thundering hooves and crackling gunfire to rejoin his cavalry train-side.

Though they were mere moments ahead of Boyd, Tex and Lefty were already prying at the door to the engine. They figured if there were riches to be had, they'd be with the people and not with the livestock in the cattle cars.

Boyd's stud slid to a stop by the door. The big stallion was as taut as a bow, toned muscles twitching, every vein protruding beneath his glossy coat, eyes rimmed with white and nostrils flaring.

Boyd swung a leg over and dismounted in one soft, fluid movement before his mount had come to a full stop.

He loosed his weapons as Lefty groaned and oscillated his crowbar.

The door gaped ever so slightly and Tex leaned into the darkness of the cabin, gun in front of his face.

Shots rang out, echoing off the mountain side and reverberating through the heft of steel.

Tex's brains splattered against the door in a shimmering crimson cascade of gore, glowing incandescent in the harsh midday sun as it misted Boyd and Lefty- sticky, warm, wet and metallic.

Lefty jumped back as Tex's dismembered corpse collapsed into the door, forcing it farther open.

The engineer, porter and a Marshal guard opened fire from their fortress of steel and bodies fell all around Boyd, with the weight of death upon themselves, dragging them to the dirt.

The horses scattered like leaves in a breeze, trampling remains and pounding blood into the dusty earth.

He heard the men go to reload and seized the opportunity to sneak around to the front of the train. Lefty had been winged, but secured himself in a bastion of the earlier landslide and drew their fire with well placed rounds.

Climbing on the track, then silently hoisting himself onto the cow-catcher, Boyd popped up at the window and dispatched all three men inside of a heartbeat.

With the smoke still rolling off his Colts he put them back in their resting places at his hips. He stumbled off the train and fell to his knees.

The cattle were spooked and banged around, anxious in the sweltering cars that would be their final resting place.

A dust devil swirled lazily around the weeping badman who had eyes only for the men face down in the dirt, life pooling around their mouths and flowing out their ears.

Tears trickled down his face, leaving pristine trails of tanned, weather-weary skin through Tex's brains and blast residue. He swiped at the tears with his blood-soaked hands a moment before the smell of gunpowder and death lingering there forced him to resort to his bandana instead.

Lefty hobbled over to where Boyd fell on the track. Though he held no particular feelings for Boyd, leaving him here meant the law- and the noose- would be one step closer to him and so he hoisted Boyd from his spot and threw him up on his horse.

He dallied the big stud off his saddle and they headed for the hills, trailing blood and sadness behind them.


	2. Pigeonroost Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A world without law was murky and confusing, but also terribly liberating.

Lefty and Boyd laid low on the range until they ran out of food and Lefty's arm went septic.

They rode in to the seedy little whistle-stop of Pigeonroost Hollow in search of a decent sawbones and some good whiskey. They trotted cautiously through the south entrance, Boyd eying each window and silently daring each timid towns-person nervously looking out to kick up a row.

He looked to the horses while Lefty sought out Doc Wedemire at the far side of town. The animals were dragged out. It'd been some hard yards coming and they showed. He rubbed them down with liniment and braced their legs before loosing them in stalls thick with bedding and mounded with timothy.

It had been weeks since the train and the boys felt the long arm of the law lurking around every corner. Seeing their faces on wanted posters had them both spooked.

Boyd had become harder in the days following the shoot out. Boyd was apprehensive and unstrung, anxious to plug anyone asking too many questions.

The world didn't end when he killed those men. God didn't cut him down where he sat, crying, steeped in blood and sorrow. In fact, he'd suffered no consequence what so ever, from God or from man.

A world without law was murky and confusing, but also terribly liberating. He was now willing to end lives to keep breathing the free country air.

He'd even thought of offing Lefty when he started lagging with infection and slowing down egress.

He still had nightmares about the gang's vacuous eyes set in contorted cadaverous faces, pupils blown wide with death, their souls escaping from them and boring holes into his being as Lefty dragged him away.

But nightmares are a trick of the mind, a betrayal of your humanity. In the real world, Boyd Crowder had become the cold-blooded killer the wanted posters needed him to be.

Lefty looked as though this town would be his last.

His face was sallow, eyes rimmed with blue-purple shadows, sweating and shaking with fever. He sought solace in a dark saloon with a filthy, fat woman who laughed too loud and a ball of dope. He was tying one on good and tight, nothing to lose.

Boyd was itching to get a move on.

He sat bending an elbow on the saloon steps, nursing a whiskey and smoking a cigarette he'd lifted off a stone-faced young whore while she saw to his needs.

A group of roostered crusty polecats, grey-haired and grizzled, crashed through the door laughing and leaning on each other and blabbering about a stage coach on it's way bringing new Chicago-style strange and a magistrate from the old states.

Boyd was only one man, but an officer of the state is bound to have some money, and those whores might have some jewelery. It would be a modest take, but might could give him enough to get him to the next town, buy an acre and disappear.

Lefty was dieing- Boyd could smell the festering wound from there. He was a mean old cuss and would beat the devil around the stump til the end, die game, but he was no good to Boyd and it was too risky to bring a stranger in. He'd have to do it alone, perhaps under cover of darkness. He rode out alone that night, on his colossal bay steed.

The following is a wire to Marshal Givens at Fort Stockton:

Four fatalities. STOP. Magistrate was knocked galley west, had his plow cleaned with the butt of gun. STOP. Highway man got away clean. STOP. None of the victims got a clear look at the man, but all described a tremendous spirited stud horse, solid in color, burly, with a large C brand on his hip, not unlike the one detailed by surviving fireman at train massacre. STOP. Magistrate indicates gunman was carrying matching set of pistols and single action rifle. STOP. Have reason to believe he may be headed south to hunker down. STOP. He's got his back up and is looking to let fly so watch yourself. STOP.


	3. Kindred Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come sunrise the Marshal would be gone up the plume, cooked in his own juices.

It was in Indianola that Boyd got married. Not legally, of course, but his soul was joined eternal to that of a warped and wickedly sinful desert rose bursting with love just for him.

He held a bead on the comely little chiseler with eyes as deep and blue as any desert oasis he'd ever seen, keeping her pinned to the wall of the cooperage just out of view of the street.

He had ideas about plucking the glistening silver earrings from where they sat in her petite lobes beneath her lavender scented mane as free and gold as the wheat swaying softly in the Texas breeze on the endless prairies outside of town.

That little four-flusher fought like a Kilkenny cat, clawing and biting, and threw him to the ground like he was nothing.

He managed to hold fast, drag her into the dirt and subdue her, though he lost his iron and suffered a split lip.

She smiled big and beautiful and threw her head back with a laugh fit for an angel. He returned a toothy, red-tinged grin and they'd lingered a little longer than necessary there in each others embrace and the mud.

She was a skilled pickpocket and scam artist and she proved an indispensable ally in his stagecoach ploy. Together they cut a swath of vicious death and destruction through the west toward Abilene.

Outside of Elmdale they'd heard of a Marshal looking for them from a squat, mean, old petticoat just before Ava caved in her skull with the butt of her pistol. Boyd wasn't worried. There had been other lawmen and bad men and they were nothing but notches on his belt, graves without flowers, now.

They killed everyone on board and took anything of value- horses, gold, jewelery, paper, food, even stripped the clothing and shoes from the corpses.

Later, beside a kettle of bubbling beans and beneath the hundreds of thousands of stars twinkling, they fucked on a bed of blood-stained personal effects and laughed at the coyotes howling with them.

They woke to the crack of gunshots and whistling bullets. They scattered for cover from the barrage raining down on them from bluff by the light of the moon.

Ava hit the dirt and crawled to a tree stump.

Boyd's face contorted as a .44 Centerfire ripped through his thigh and he stumbled toward Ava.

A lean, hard man appeared on the trail south of the bluff and stalked toward him, closing the distance fast with long, purposeful strides.

He drew down on Boyd and directed his attention to the stolen horses, still in harness, hitched to the high-line. He seemed at sea, like he was looking for something and wasn't quite finding it.

He barked some orders at Boyd on his back in the dust. Ava couldn't make out what was said, but the Marshal's meaning was as plain as the tin star pinned on his chest. He was cold and calculated, mean. She could tell the lean lawman didn't waste any energy on emotions or actions superfluous to the task at hand.

She readied her weapon from her hidey-hole behind the stump and screwed her courage to her soul before popping up swiftly and smoothly steadying her elbow on the rotting wood.

With a lick and a promise she squeezed off a single shot and it went hopelessly wide, ricocheting off the sandstone but coming no where near the curly wolf looking to plant her man in the bone orchard.

Before the Marshal could clear leather and spin in her direction, Boyd had dropped the hammer.

The bullet tumbled through the flatfoot's torso and he fell like an ancient redwood. He stared down at his stomach as though he couldn't believe his eyes. He was bleeding to beat the Dutch and his crisp, button-down shirt quickly turned ruddy and wet. He ghosted ashen fingers over the wound and struggled to lift his body out of the dirt.

Ava and Boyd lit a shuck for the hills, she astride the Marshal's horse, him on a stolen draft and their take in stow. Come sunrise the Marshal would be gone up the plume, cooked in his own juices. They ran until the horse was played out and they walked the rest of the way to Hendersonville. They hung fire in the town for a few weeks, sleeping where they could and eating was they were able. Ava got the Consumption from some hard case lunger and died on the road to the next camp as Boyd stroked her hair.


	4. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes were as distant and dead and stygian as any hardened criminal Boyd had ever met.

The sun sagged sedately in the arid air and it cast a long, lean shadow across the crusty and cracked earth. A lone, dusty cowboy rested on a ridge after the long journey across the pass. His horse had come up lame, and with many miles remaining between the ridge and their destination.

Even in the scorching sun, he could feel the dangerous heat radiating from his mount's right fore.

He surveyed the landscape looking for signs of water. There- in the distance and barely visible on the horizon- was a stream beneath a few ragged trees. Amazing how all life follows the flow of water.

He led his horse there and stripped out of his stiff and sweaty clothes, save his hat and bandana. He waded hip deep into the cool crispness. The mare drank and stood quietly, licking her lips. She snorted a comforted huff of air through her nostrils while the water washed the heat from her aching muscles, tissues and tendons.

The Marshal removed his handkerchief, dunked it in the stream and swiped it over the grit on the back of his neck before running it over his exhausted, scowling expression. He tossed his remaining effects onto the bank. He let out an exasperated sigh and disappeared into the water for just a moment before scurrying up to the side to sit in the shade.

He held on to the end of his lead while his mare grazed on the grass of bank still steeped in the stream. He laid back and listened to her breathing and chewing, smelled her sweat and leather and the plants. He felt the cool grass beneath his bare skin and stared up at the impossibly near, deep purple sky.

It was starting to get dark. He should set up camp. There was no way his horse was making it to town. He kissed at her and led her up the bank to a tree.

He searched his saddle bags for a tiny container of herbal poultice. He smeared the dressing on his mares bulging tendon and skillfully wrapped a strip of fabric around the injured limb, careful to apply even and constant pressure.

When he was satisfied the wrap was on properly, he stood and shuffled over to his bedroll. He rubbed a little leftover poultice on his aching neck muscles before bunking down for the night.

He stared up at the night sky and tried to count the innumerable stars glinting just out of reach beyond the tree tops.

There was a chorus of night noises- peepers and crickets, and long, lonely cry of coyotes calling to the moon. The water rushed endlessly on, beating mercilessly the shore which contained it. The soft, free breeze caressed the foliage like a lost lover making the trees lament their anchoring roots and weep.

The next day found the mare in better form. Although she still pointed her toe and shortened her stride, she'd make it to town today if they took it slow.

He dressed in the clothing he'd rinsed in the stream and dried under the sun that morning. He tacked his mare up and cinched his saddle tight.

He led her a ways until he couldn't walk any further and he felt she was limbered up, then climbed aboard.

They meandered through the deserted prairie until a town loomed in the distance.

His hand rested on the grip of his Remington 1875, trigger finger tingling.

He hated towns like this. There was a fluttering low in his gut as he breached the gait and strode down main street under the heavy gaze of unseen eyes.

He took the mare to the livery stable and left her there with instructions to bring her sound again.

He sauntered toward the saloon, brushing the dust from his vest and rubbing the tips of his boots clean on the backs of his calves.

The lanky lawman bellied up to the bar and ordered a bottle of whiskey. He drank his hands steady and walked back out. He wasn't here for booze, he was there for a fugitive.

He'd faced the badman once before in an ambush which left The Marshal gut-shot and horseless just outside of Abilene.

He stretched out on the porch of the post office, long legs unfurled and spurs dangling over the edge. He pulled his hat down low over his eyes and crossed his arms over his star and waited.

Not long after he settled in, he saw the man he was looking for walking from the stable. The man was a bank robber and an expert at stagecoach holdups. He was also a murderer and The Marshal knew all too well how quick he was with a gun.

He was unmistakable. His unruly, atramentaceous hair stuck up in all directions, wavering slightly in the breeze.

The Marshal recognized the iron on his hip and the way his narrowed eyes darted around the town, looking for the first hint of trouble.

His icy cold eyes glanced quickly over the man seated on the post office step, lingering momentarily on the revolver beneath his relaxed finger tips. He eyed the well-worn grip of the six-shooter and inspected the callouses on the tall man's thumb and forefinger which suggested he was familiar with shooting this gun.

The seated man glanced up from under his hat to meet the hard eyes studying his fingers. The brim of his hat tilted slightly as he did so, allowing the sun to illuminate the star pinned to his lapel and still partially concealed by the rugged bear paw draped over his chest.

Noticing that the other man had seen the tin, The Marshal stood, tall and imposing, and fitted his fingers into the grooves worn in the walnut wood. It felt natural and comforting in his hand.

The bank robber squared off, too, undeterred. He rested his palms on his matching set of Colt SAAs. The Marshal flashed back to his last encounter with this man and his blood ran cold. The fugitive issued a warning in an oddly mellifluous tone, his cadence slow and easy and his face untroubled.

"Well, now, Marshal, I think I've seen a ghost. So good to see you again," he feigned hospitality.

He opened his arms offering an embrace and bared his teeth in a feral smile. The Marshal didn't move.

"I'd wager you and me have differing opinions on how I will leave this town. I ain't going to jail to wait to be hanged. I'm going to ride out of here a free man and work my way through the west, taking what I need to get by. If you've got other ideas, we're gonna have another go-round. Didn't work out so well for you last time, did it? It's you or me, Marshal. I've lived a hard life and if I got to die, I'm going to die a hell of a lot harder."

"Mr. Crowder, it don't have to go down like this. No one has to die today. I don't want to kill ya, but if you make me draw, I will put you down." The lawman was as calm and cool as still waters, unflappable.

His eyes were as distant and dead and stygian as any hardened criminal Boyd had ever met. He was dark, for a law man.

Boyd might have respected that hard, imposing, dangerous quietness in another man; how it speaks of the carnage he's witnessed and inflicted on his fellow compatriots. This man knew depths of suffering. He could mete out punishment in broad strokes and take some in kind. He was practiced in how to patiently stand a shitstorm as it stripped his world down to it's components around him. He knew how to survive to clean up the mess in the aftermath.

The whole town was deafeningly silent, save for a school bell dinging faintly in a distant breeze.

Boyd drummed his fingers on his guns and unbuttoned his holsters with easy, unconscious movements of his thumbs. The Marshal's grip tightened on his own weapon.

He stared through Boyd, aiming for his soul, perhaps. His unflinching eyes, void of emotion, taking in the just facts and betraying nothing of the man behind them. Boyd's gaze mirrored that of the lawman, matter-of-fact and aloof. He stiffened slightly and exhaled. He melted into his guns and in a fluid motion drew down on the hardened Marshal.

Time slowed down. The Marshal could see the badman was weighing his options. He could feel the impending explosion of violence vibrating in the air between them.

His long healed gut wound fluttered and sang. His stomach did flips. His trigger finger itched and his neck hair raised a warning.

He saw Crowder tense and go for his weapons.

In a flash the lawman cleared his holster and fired a single .45 center mass. It tore through the outlaw's chest with a sickening rip and the shot echoed off the buildings in slow reverberation.

The fugitive fell to the ground, life mingling with the dirt with each beat of his heart. He lay there, twitching and gasping as The Marshal oozed over to inspect him. It was a clean shot, though the lung. It would eventually prove to be fatal, the lawman thought.

Pity the shot wasn't more accurate, though The Marshal did experience a fleeting glimpse of glib satisfaction knowing that the suffering he'd done alone in the Texas desert now laid heavily on the man who'd subjected him to it.

"That's quite a draw you got there, Marshal," Boyd forced out, lips curling into a foamy red smirk.

He tried to whistle low and long, but only managed to cough. "Ice cold water flowing through your veins! I was tired of running, anyhow. Make sure my brother gets my horse...and my boots... and guns," he said in stilted verse. His breath gurgled through the hole in his chest. He raised his head to scrutinize the damage.

He placed a sallow and cadaverous hand over his wheezing wound to laugh ruefully. "See ya in hell, lawman. I'll save you a seat. We'll reminisce and share a whiskey." He squeezed his words out between shallow, rattling breaths, his lips pale and lathered with froth.

Boyd Crowder died there in the little dusty town, squirming in an umber pool of his own blood. He died unceremoniously, alone and was mourned by no one save for the lawman who'd killed him.

Marshal Givens brought his body home for burial, strapped to a spirited bay stud horse to give to his kin.


End file.
